


Professor Layton and the Good Fight

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [7]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Action, Adventure, Gen, Intrigue, Masked Men, Politics, Self-Defense, Socialites - Freeform, terrorized librarians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-10-13 19:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20587802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: [4]Goad him, Paul had said. (Layton had protested that he didn’t know how. Paul had stared at him in silence for a full fifteen seconds before launching into a counterprotest thatyes he bloody well did, now stop playing stupid.)





	1. Chapter 1

_London’s most enigmatic gentleman has struck again. A letter has been received by the Times detailing fraud and corruption in the business practices of Charing-Bell Real Estate, to the tune of over a million pounds. A spokesman for Charing-Bell Real Estate denied the allegations, as well as any governmental involvement, but stock prices have already fallen by 34%. Society is already wondering where this enigmatic gentleman might appear next, and what new scandal will appear in his wake._

Layton sighed and put down the newspaper. Publicity was one of their goals, but he never had enjoyed seeing himself in the newspaper. It wasn’t safe, which somehow he’d felt long before he’d heard of Targent and his father’s schemes, but more than that, it was… an embarrassment. He didn’t want attention; he didn’t want to be made a fuss of. He wanted a quiet life--

\--Well, perhaps he was a bit too good at swordfighting and puzzle-solving for a man who wanted a quiet life. But he wanted to pass unnoticed. He didn’t want any fuss made over it. Doing the right thing was its own reward. And this…. Was embarrassing, and dangerous to boot.

He tucked the newspaper under one arm when he left the cafe, headed for the nearest library branch. It had been working well as a research hub thus far; it was rapidly becoming tradition. Probably they oughtn’t keep to traditions, but convenience and expediency were factors as well…

At any rate, it was where they were meeting today. Layton pulled his coat a little more tightly around himself; it was a short walk, but there was a definite bite in the air today. He hoped it wouldn’t snow. It was almost certain to happen again this winter, but he’d prefer to avoid it as long as possible.

He paused before crossing the street; there was a woman on the opposite corner, holding a well-worn, handmade sign. ‘DOWN WITH HAWKS’, it said. He thought, on reflection, he’d seen it before, but he rarely visited this part of town, and it hadn’t really registered. 

He crossed the street the other direction, looking at her more closely. She was short, wide-framed, and bundled up tightly, with dark eyes and a stubborn jaw. She gave him a wary, resigned look as he approached.

“Pardon me, madam, but haven’t I seen you here before?”

“Oh, aye, like as not. I do a round of the city. Fighting the good fight, eh?”

“A round?” That sounded surprisingly formalized.

“Keeps the coppers and the bloody-minded Tories off their guard,” she explained.

“That’s necessary?”

She shrugged. “I’m no good at making friends.”

He knew the type. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Day after the rat was elected,” she said proudly. “Though I wouldn’t doubt they stuffed the ballot boxes.”

“Oh, my.” He rubbed his forehead; it was a habit he’d picked up when he kept trying to tug at the brim of a hat that wasn’t there. “That long? Your perseverance is admirable.”

“I don’t care if I win or lose. All it matters is I’m fighting for the right things.”

“Surely you want to win, though.”

“Well, aye, but that’s not the main thing, is it? Anyway, might be a chance of it. Least we’re getting some other loony bastards in the fray, eh?” She nodded at the newspaper he was still carrying.

Layton tried very hard not to blush. “Well. Quite.”

“‘Course the bloody toff’s gonna get more attention… amateur…” She shook her head. “Anyway, better late.”

“I certainly hope so,” he said. “Well, the best of luck to you, madam. Do stay warm.”

“Same to you, good sir.” She was already looking past him, holding her sign higher. She was an odd one, but he had to admire her tenacity. All these years, and she’d never given up, never wavered…

Well, better late. He strode with renewed resolution to the library, holding the door open for a young woman with a stroller before ducking inside. He looked around for Paul; he wasn’t in the reading room, nor terrorizing anyone at the fiction desk again. He was sitting at one of the tables, staring at the information desk with a vaguely bewildered look on his face. He nodded at Layton when he arrived, though his gaze hardly wavered.

“I’m surprised to find you just sitting here,” said Layton. 

“This woman has been reading recipes,” said Paul, “over the phone.”

Layton looked at the reference desk. “Two egg whites…” the woman was saying.

“This is the third bloody one,” said Paul. “Someone has phoned this place asking for recipes, and this woman is reading her those recipes over the phone.”

“How extraordinary.”

“It isn’t, though,” said Paul. “Listen to the woman.”

Layton did. “No… no, that’s at high heat, Mrs. Stapleton…” she was saying.

“A woman habitually calls this place asking for the staff to read her recipes,” said Paul, “and they oblige.”

“I can’t say I expected that.”

“It can’t be borne.”

“Paul.”

“It’s been twenty-three minutes, Layton,” said Paul. “This is a humanitarian mission.”

“Paul…”

Paul stormed to the desk. “You’ve been on that phone for twenty-four minutes!” he yelled. “I demand to be seen immediately!”

“I, er,” said the librarian, “I’ll have to let you go, Mrs. Stapleton.” She hung up. “Yes, sir?”

“Could we speak to the reference librarian?” Paul asked, relatively politely.

“I… I’ll get her.” The grey-haired woman hurried off.

“You’ve terrified the librarian,” sighed Layton.

“Well, she clearly wasn’t going to stand up for herself…”

“You’ve an awfully odd way of doing a good deed, Paul.”

Paul drew back. “What’s good about that? We needed her help. I got her attention. Don’t tell me what my motives are.”

But Paul himself had said… he shook his head; the grey-haired woman was returning, with Elaine the reference librarian in tow.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the librarian, straightening her shirt. “How may I help you?”

“We’re seeking information on a Raphael Grey,” said Layton.

“Ah, the locally notorious one? Or another?”

“No, you’re probably thinking of the right reprobate,” said Paul.

“It’s always best to ask, I can assure you. What information are you looking for?”

“Oh, god, how many column-inches has the bastard had?” Paul ran a hand over his face.

“Perhaps just the most recent scandals,” said Layton, “in addition to general biographical information.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Skip the tabloids, then?”

“Please,” said Layton. “Thank you very much, madam.”

“Not a problem. I’ll be right back.” Elaine hurried off, and they returned to the table Paul had staked a claim on. 

“Read today’s paper, have you?” said Paul, as Layton rearranged his things.

“Yes,” said Layton, with an embarrassed cough. 

“I’d love to know how that damned photographer keeps getting those shots,” said Paul.

“Well, it’s not as if--” Layton paused, considering how to phrase it in a public space. “It must be easy enough for them to determine where to go. The targets are hardly a secret.”

“Yes, it’s the photographer that confuses me,” said Paul. “Rather good at action shots for someone on the society beat…”

“I’d expect a professional photographer to have a broad array of skills,” said Layton.

“It’s still a rather different set of… eh, maybe it’s nothing.” Paul folded his arms. “Enjoying the celebrity?”

“Not especially.”

“You do seem to blunder into an awful lot of it for someone who doesn’t enjoy it.”

“I’ve never been entirely sure how that happened.” Paul was giving him a sideward look; he wondered if the man could shed some light on the puzzle. “In a way, it doesn’t seem fair. There are people who have been protesting the man for years.”

“Saw old batty Kathy on the way here, did you?”

Yes, probably, presuming that was the woman’s name, but he was getting a little tired of Paul’s sharp (if scattershot) powers of perception. “I was thinking more of you.”

Paul snorted. “I’ve never been political.”

“You focused your grudge on me alone, then?”

“That’s… Why would I bother? Who the hell would listen to me? Same problem as that bat on the street.”

“Still, she’s right,” said Layton. “And it takes considerable strength to be so persistent.”

“To fight a losing battle, you mean?” Paul rolled his eyes. “Strength hasn’t any part of it.”

“What would you say it takes, then?”

“Stubbornness, poor luck, and a lack of imagination.”

“_Lack_ of imagination?”

“There’s any number of things I could’ve been distracted by,” said Paul. “It’d probably have been the more sensible course. But I stick with what I know.”

Layton gave him a strange look. “No, you don’t. I’ve seen your journals, Paul--”

“In non-engineering capacities, I stick with what I know,” said Paul, folding his arms, with a tone that brooked no opposition.

“Naturally,” said Layton. “Which perfectly explains why we’re here. With this entire scheme, you’ve very much stuck to what you know.”

Paul sputtered. “That’s complete--”

“Why are you so insistent that your motivations are different than the evidence clearly proves?”

“If a hen and a half lays an egg and a half in a day and a half,” said Paul, “how many eggs will five hens lay in 6 days?”

“I--” Layton drew back, appalled. “You are shamelessly diverting me from the question at hand!”

“Emphasis on ‘shamelessly’.” Paul propped his head on his head, watching him, insufferably smug. Like he knew Layton couldn’t possibly resist, which was, of course, correct.

“I--” Layton found that his hands had clenched into fists; he stretched them, carefully, as his mind was briefly absorbed in the puzzle. “Twenty,” he said, a few moments later. “Now, Paul--”

“Here we are!” The librarian dropped three binders, two books, and a short stack of magazines on the table. “Let me know if you change your mind about the tabloids; they don’t keep for long in storage, but we’ve a few years’ worth of the more nearly reputable ones.”

“Thank you,” said Layton, as Paul said, “_Why_?”

“People like to read them,” said Elaine, with a shrug. “There’s one gentleman who--”

“Elaine-- I’m sorry, sirs--” The grey-haired woman hurried to their table, an anxious look in her eyes.

“Yes, Laura?”

“Elaine, there’s a woman upstairs, and you know the music librarian-- well--” She looked at the two of them and pressed her lips together.

“Right, right. What is it?”

“Sheet music,” said the grey-haired woman. “For choral performance.”

“All right--”

Laura held up a sheet of paper that was completely filled with loopy writing. “For all these.”

“Right…” Elaine took the sheet with visible trepidation.

“In C.”

“Immortal gods.” She pushed her hair back, with a deep sigh. “Er, gentlemen--”

“She says she’ll be back tomorrow with the three pages she forgot--”

“Mother of--” Elaine coughed. “Gentlemen. If you’re all right for now--”

“By all means,” said Layton. “Thank you very much, madam.”

Paul looked after her as she hurried away, shaking his head. “There is something wrong with these people.”

“It’s perfectly natural to be helpful, Paul.”

“And it’s perfectly unnatural to twist yourself into a bloody pretzel…”

“Has it stopped you?”

Paul looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “I’m not helpful in the slightest!”

No, but certainly a pretzel in his own way, and like as not by his own design. Layton picked up the top book on the pile. “How shall we divide this up?”

“I’ll take the newspapers, you take the books, we’ll see where we get. How the hell are there _books_?”

Layton turned the book toward Paul to show him the title. _Nouveau Riche: The Lives of London’s Most Popular Socialites_. He glanced at the other: _Rags on Riches: My Career as a Gossip Columnist_. “She’s certainly thorough.”

“This is going to turn me into a communist, I can feel it already,” said Paul.

“I’m almost surprised you weren’t already.”

“It’s too charitable. I’d rather try to get on the good end of capitalism than ride that sinking ship.”

Layton shook his head. It was possible this was going to turn _him_ into a communist instead. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take, Paul. Unto the breach.”

Paul harrumphed. “Once more,” he said, with an odd measuring look, before diving into his newspaper with a scowl.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

By the end of it, Layton was seriously pondering a read of the Communist Manifesto, but it was probably unwise to use his library card at the moment. There were bookstores he could check, but it was probably a waste of time and resources that could better be invested. Still…

“We could just strangle him and be done with it,” said Paul, tossing his magazine back onto the table. “I can’t imagine anyone would miss him.”

“You read the correspondence they printed…”

Paul grimaced. “All right, yes, but they’re twits and I don’t care how they feel. They’d be better off with someone else to idolize anyway.”

“I’m sure they could do worse, though it would certainly be no easy task.” Layton looked over the articles with a grimace. Affairs and wild soirees, spending-sprees and public feuds, arrogance and charm… Business-partners led to ruin, a trail of discarded lovers… and none of it with any subtlety. The man seemed to crave attention. Layton couldn’t understand it. Some attention could be good, he supposed, but to deliberately lead a life so public… 

“Well, yes, Jack the Ripper had his followers, but they aren’t far from the bottom of that barrel.”

“I’m not sure I even understood half of the salacious details,” said Layton. “‘Extravagant purchases at Le Doux Ete’?”

“It’s a lingerie shop, Layton,” said Paul. “Please tell me I don’t have to explain to you what lingerie is.”

“I would greatly appreciate it if you did not.”

“Don’t say I never did you any favours.” Paul steepled his fingers. “I don’t think your usual tactics are going to work here. What the devil could possibly shame the man? The public vivisection of puppies?”

“Well, I do think that would work,” said Layton, “but I pray it isn’t likely.”

“I suppose he could secretly enjoy tweed,” said Paul.

“What would be wrong with that?”

“I shan’t attempt to explain to a professor.”

“I don’t under--”

“Drop it, Layton…”

Layton shook his head. “So I suppose we must hope that some exploit or another of his has descended from the merely immoral to the actively criminal. Or that he has found some depth to plumb that society will not readily forgive him.”

“With that amount of cash to throw around, we’d need a submarine.”

“I hardly see what that has to do with--”

“Is Ascot in prison?”

Layton nearly asked what that had to do with it, but of course it was obvious. “While he spread considerable chaos, he committed few actual crimes and did little real harm.”

“Few isn’t none, and does the law care for such niceties in any other circumstance?”

“You aren’t in prison, either,” said Layton.

Paul pressed his lips together.

“Unless you’ve a secret source of wealth that-- how _do_ you get along, anyway?”

Paul looked around them, pointedly. “Occasionally I sell things,” he said.

A public place, yes. “The nature of such a business would still require a sizable initial investment before it began to break even.”

“Call it an inheritance,” said Paul. “But it was nowhere near these levels, I assure you, and it’s long gone. I’ve been making my own way for quite some time.”

Layton settled back in his chair, considering. “At any rate, this is an argument I’ve heard before. ‘The law, in its majestic equality, forbids the rich as well as the poor to beg in the streets’...”

“And what happens to them if they do?”

“A fine is certainly more onerous to a poor man to a rich…”

“How often do they even give the poor the option?”

“Though it would matter little…” Randall wasn’t in gaol, though; Randall wasn’t, Paul wasn’t, Bill wasn’t; Clive and Bronev were, though they’d certainly gone to great lengths to ensure that. Dimitri too; Desmond probably would be were he ever caught… 

“But yes, I take your meaning,” said Layton. “It would take a great deal, at this point, for the police or the public to act against him.”

“We might be able to find something if we keep digging,” said Paul. “But tell me, Layton, what if we don’t?”

“We attempt to reason with him.”

“If that fails?”

“Well, we move on,” said Layton. “One doesn’t need to topple every leg of a house of cards.”

“But some are more important than others, and he might not be the only nut that’s hard to crack. What do we do if he needs toppling?”

Layton looked at him. “You weren’t _serious_ with your earlier suggestion, were you? Because I emphatically and categorically refuse.”

“Earlier su-- right, right. Well, it’s easier than poison and cleaner than--”

“Emphatically and _categorically_\--”

“--I was _not_ serious, Layton, it’s considerably too much effort and he frankly isn’t worth the risk.”

Layton levelled a mistrustful glare his way. “Then what _are_ you driving at?”

“If we cannot _find_ sufficient scandal…”

“Are you suggesting we _create_ one?”

Paul stood. “It’s long past time this conversation should leave the library.”

Fair enough. He rose, and tidied the books as best he could, and led Paul out onto the street, holding the door for him, expecting Paul’s rolled eyes at the gesture. “Really, Paul, you’re suggesting we create a scandal from whole cloth?”

“Oh, come on, we’d hardly need to do that. Look at the man! Half cloth, at best.”

“Paul, for heaven’s sake--”

“This isn’t _new_, Layton, it’s the Queensberry rules--”

“But false allegations, Paul--”

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” said Paul, “Or close the wall up with our English dead.”

Layton’s eyebrows raised. “You’re quoting _Shakespeare_ at--?”

“In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility--” Paul sneered at him. “But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger--”

The woman with the sign-- ‘Batty Kathy’, if Paul was to believed-- gave out a cheer. “Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage--”

“Paul,” said Layton, “this is no mere ethical quibble. If they discovered it, _we would be ruined_.”

Paul paused in his monologue. “What, our reputation--”

“We’re trading on reputation, Paul,” said Layton. “We’re trading on truth and the uncovering of lies. If we’re compromised, we lose all hope of convincing anyone of what’s really going on.” Layton paused, looking across the street. “With only one or two exceptions.”

“...They’ll say that we are anyway,” said Paul. “Whether we lie or not. They’ll say that we have and use that to trap us.”

“That’s as may be, but when they do, we’ll have no other defense but truth.”

“And why should anyone believe--”

“That’s why you have me,” said Layton, “isn’t it?”

Paul frowned at him. 

“What did you say? ‘Who the hell would listen to me’?” He could almost roll his eyes at Paul’s obvious surprise at hearing him quote the curse as well. “I know you think me frivolous and foppish, Paul, but you brought me on to this project for a reason. You have your areas of expertise, and I have mine. Trust me when I say that the fabrication of evidence would, on _top_ of being wrong, also lead to our entire ruination.”

Paul’s lips were pressed together, but his shoulders slumped. “I keep forgetting that you’re starting to catch on,” he muttered. “Though I can’t imagine how.”

“The lesson has been repeatedly drummed into my head,” said Layton, though he wondered, from the flicker of Paul’s eyes, if he hadn’t got the meaning slightly wrong. Perhaps he’d meant he didn’t know how he kept forgetting...?

“We’ll table it, for now,” said Paul, and started forward. “First, we gather information.”

“Indeed,” said Layton. “I hadn’t taken you for a student of the Bard.”

Paul glared at him. “I told you-- theatre. The teachers made it clear that at least one Shakespearean production per year was mandatory…”

“The historical plays are an unusual choice, I should think…”

“They wanted to be different.” Paul rolled his eyes.

“And I thought you said you rarely went on stage--”

“I didn’t mean to gather information on _me_, Layton!”

Layton wanted to anyway. He needed to know what Paul’s limits were; he needed to know if the garotte would ever be on the table. He was going to gather information on Paul, whether the man liked it or not.

“We’ll table it,” said Layton, “for now.”

Paul looked back at him, glaring. “Christ, you really are starting to catch on,” he muttered, and set a pace brisk enough to discourage further conversation. Layton didn’t much mind. He’d won the point, and for now, that was quite enough.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

\--

Paul had already stuffed most of his disguise into a bag by the time he walked through the door; he was still cagey at times about his alter egos. Layton imagined he wanted to keep a few up his sleeve; the man seemed convinced that he would need them eventually. Which was, of course, potentially a self-fulfilling prophecy. “So, what did you find?”

“Three affairs, two addictions, three prostitutes, and a duel.” Paul tossed his bag on a shelf and sat opposite Layton.

“So, nothing new?”

“Not materially.” Paul slumped in his chair. “I don’t suppose you’ve any new ideas?”

“We could simply move on.”

“The bastard deserves to be taken down, though.”

And that mattered to Paul, did it? “He does seem to,” Layton admitted, “but we must pick our battles wisely.”

“It’s hard to think what would even register as a scandal for him anymore.”

“Well, hopefully this would,” said Layton, “but proof is still difficult to find. And bluffing would hardly avail.”

“...Or would it?” said Paul.

“Hmm?”

Paul leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. His eyes were half-focused, looking somewhere over Layton’s shoulder, as something started coming together in his mind. Layton was starting to recognise the signs of it. “Form over substance. What else has the bastard ever done with his life but prove it? We don’t have to prove a thing. We just have to get it out there.”

“But we’ll need proof if anyone’s to--”

“And we’ll have it, but haven’t you been paying attention? The man’s life is built on appearances. A true scandal--”

“Do you think it would be?” Paul wasn’t usually so optimistic.

“Handled in the right way,” Paul said, “I think it might. Layton, I think I’ve got it. We don’t fabricate a scandal. We provoke one.”

“Provoke one?”

“Confronted with these accusations in public, how do you think he’ll react?”

“Other than rashly? It’s hard to say--”

“--But very rashly. Which will only draw more attention and make it more credible--”

“I see--”

“--and for all his escapades, there are a few lines he hasn’t crossed. There’s always been doubt--”

“But if we can provoke him into something truly unseemly in public, we’ll both damage his reputation and value in the organization as well as provide public evidence to support our claim. Moreover, any of the man’s scandals seem to be a favourite topic of journalists. I think you do have it, Paul-- it will be hard to direct events in the correct direction, but if we can, it accomplishes everything in one fell swoop.” He gave the man a respectful nod; a gentleman acknowledged moments of brilliance in his peers.

Paul frowned. “Then again, he’s no stranger to violence. He might lash out, and he’s had quite a while to get good at it. Can you even protect yourself?”

Layton paused, thinking back over their past encounters. The recent business-- Paul had been long out of town before the showdown with Duke Anton-- there had been blessedly few fisticuffs in St. Mystere-- and Paul’s knowledge of his Azran exploits was obviously incomplete. There was university, but Paul hadn’t been paying attention to him as anything but Claire’s beau-- or had he investigated him more closely because of that? Regardless, Layton had never been on the official rolls of the Gressenheller fencing club; he’d stayed away from it for some time, unwilling to face the memories. He’d only got back in practice when it proved-- a promising distraction from memories even worse. Which was, of course, long after Paul had left, and even then, he’d kept it quite informal. He’d no desire to perform in tournaments. Randall had occasionally dreamed of it, which turned, of course, into quite the effective deterrent once he was gone.

So, it was quite plausible that… “You’ve never seen me fight, have you?”

Paul scoffed. “I saw you nearly get your teeth bashed in--”

“I was ambushed and distraught, not to mention outnumbered. Under better circumstances, I assure you I am perfectly capable of defending myself.”

“Oh?” Paul sounded more skeptical than usual. “How so?”

“I’m a respectable fencer--”

“Christ, of course you are. Is there any other type?”

“I can assure you that there is,” Layton said drily. “You weren’t aware it was Descole’s method of choice?”

“Point taken.”

“And I’ve some skill with improvised weaponry as well.”

“Books?” said Paul, scornful.

“If those are at hand.” Layton shrugged. “I’m almost surprised you didn’t hear about the casino incident?”

“Casino incident?” Paul frowned. “Monte d’Or?”

“Considerably more recent,” said Layton. “Underground London.”

“I suppose I did hear there was some sort of dust-up in the area…” Paul squinted at him. “Wasn’t it run by those thugs?”

“Naturally. They sought to prevent our exit.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Upon which?”

“I was forced to improvise weaponry to provide a cover for our escape.”

“What sort of weaponry?”

“A…” Layton pondered how to describe it. “Slot-machine gun.”

Paul stared at him. “A… you’re not trying to tell me you made a projectile weapon from a slot machine?”

“Multiple machines,” Layton corrected, “but yes.”

“How the devil would you-- well, the spring-actions, but you couldn’t get the velocity on--”

Layton endured Paul’s interruptions with grace, but, time being short, saw no reason not to repay him in kind. He hardly seemed to take offense; he got the impression Paul rather appreciated the time saved. “Harvesting multiple springs aided in the--”

“But you’d’ve been using coins as projectiles, the mass of--”

“While the wealth spent on the project was immense, the casino tokens weren’t of the highest quality. They were lighter than you might--”

“You still couldn’t get the force on a single coin to--”

Layton tilted his head. “Why a single coin? For cover fire--”

“--shotgun-style? This is absurd, Layton-- I mean, granted, the loading mechanism would have practically been pre-built for you--”

He smiled; it was a little like sharing a puzzle, and watching his companions demolish it with a speed few others could match. “That was one of the easier problems--”

“--just pour the things into the hopper--”

“And that particular model had been built to promote its ‘jackpot’ in as obtrusive a way as possible--”

Paul scoffed. “Ah, of course, mere gravity wasn’t good enough for them?”

“No, they chose to propel the winnings outward, better to promote the illusion of--”

“So you just had to improvise a chassis--”

“And a triggering mechanism--”

“And amplify the force--”

“And thus,” said Layton, “a slot-machine gun.”

Paul stared at him. “Layton,” he said, “Why the hell couldn’t you have just gone into engineering?”

“Well, I’d considered it, but then Randall went missing, and--”

“Ugh.” Paul closed his eyes in pain. “That _bastard_. I’ll never forgive him.”

“I don’t--”

“Do you have any _idea_\--” Paul was waving his arms about. Layton raised an eyebrow at him. “Of course you don’t, why do I ask? You never do. Do you have any _idea_ how much bloody simpler my life would have been if you’d just bloody gone into engineering!”

“I can’t say that I do,” said Layton. “Though, there is a possibility that might also have resulted in the world being overrun by… this is entirely immaterial to the point at hand.”

“God damn absolutely everything,” said Paul. “_You could have been an engineer!_”

“The point is,” said Layton, “that yes, I am perfectly capable of defending myself.”

“I am going to strangle that idiot with his own cravat!”

“He doesn’t even wear a--”

“He’s going to, when I’m finished with him!”

“Paul, that doesn’t even make--”

“_Aaargh!_” Paul collapsed forward onto the table, his hair clutched tightly in his hands. Layton wondered if that was why it was always shaped that way.

“You know, I think you could use a nice cup of--”

Layton couldn’t quite make out Paul’s muffled response, but suspected it was an invitation for him to do something either unethical or anatomically dubious. He found that this did not particularly faze him anymore; it was too common a sentiment to be shocking, and it wasn’t as if the man seemed to truly mean it, these days. “Suit yourself,” he said, and went to put the kettle on.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

\--

These confrontations were always fights, of a sort, but Layton had not yet faced one that promised to turn quite so physical, quite so quickly. That and plain common sense had his nerves at high alert. He wasn’t the only one; Paul practically ran into Grey on his way over, almost upsetting an entire tray full of drinks. He could just hear Paul muttering quick deferent apologies; Grey rolled his eyes. “One wonders about the Winters,” he could hear the man remark; from the volume of it, it was clear that being heard was his intention. “The quality of their help gets worse every year.”

Paul was setting his drinks on the table; Layton slipped closer, under the pretense of taking one. He certainly didn’t want to dull his senses, but appearances had to be maintained, and moreover, the drinks seemed to be positively watered down. Perhaps there was reason to be concerned about the Winters, indeed. “Good sir, do you know the way to the kitchens?”

“Of course,” said Paul. He’d cased the escape routes, then, and they were still clear. “Is there anything I can get you, sir?”

“Would that there were. No, thank you.”

Paul rolled his eyes at him and turned away, heading back the way he came. He thought he might have heard the man mutter a ‘good luck’, but he unfortunately didn’t have the attention to spare him.

He hoped that there would be sufficient publicity at this event. Though, that hardly ever seemed to be a problem for Grey. Furthermore, he’d sent anonymous notes to the major papers indicating something of the evening’s plans. One could never be sure such a thing would actually be read, though. He looked around, and saw at least one woman with a small notebook in her hand who had the look of a reporter; her blonde hair was pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, her peach gown seemed carefully chosen to not stand out, and there was something sharp in her wide grey eyes as they darted about the hall. “Now, where the devil has she run off to?” he thought he heard her murmur, before her gaze caught on his target. “Ah, Mr Grey! I trust you’ve heard the rumours of--”

“I would hardly have wasted a good wine on that little--”

“--your involvement in a vague, grand conspiracy to co-opt the government?” the reporter continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, save perhaps a shade more loudly.

He was hardly going to get a better opening than this. He left the room as inconspicuously as possible, slipping into a currently-unoccupied hallway. He took the cane he’d secreted behind the door, and leaned against the doorway, hidden in the shadows, listening.

“Oh, that nonsense. Utterly ridiculous. Cry for attention. The nutter’s usual targets were too boring, I suppose. Being a celebrity invites these sort of accusations from the rabble, you know.”

“So you deny it all, then?” said the reporter, quite loudly. Grey was always loud, like he wanted to be overheard by half the room, but she was certainly no slouch at projecting, herself. One assumed it must be deliberate. Layton took the mask from his pocket and slipped it over his face.

“Deny what? The man’s hardly provided any details.”

“And if he did?”

“I would welcome the opportunity to have it all out in public,” said Grey. “Like gentlemen.”

As if the man knew anything about the term. Layton threw a bottle of smoke out before him, and called, “I would be happy to oblige.”

A ripple of alarm went through the crowd, but Layton’s eyes were only on Grey. As the smoke cleared, there he was, looking just as the newspapers would have him; tall, slim, with carefully styled dark hair that just brushed his shoulders. His nose was long and thin, and sparkling green eyes were looking at him down its length. “Well, well,” said Grey. “So you did have the nerve. How extraordinary.”

“Though I cannot claim to rival you in nerve, sir, it is not a quality I am accused of lacking,” said Layton. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“In regards to what? I could certainly talk about myself for--”

“Very well; if you wish to play ignorant, I can oblige you.” Layton levelled the point of his cane in Grey’s direction. The man’s smirk did not falter for even a moment. “You are a liar and a cheat, but that is all well known, and sadly common. What I accuse you of today is worse than the petty scandals that comprise your public life. You are a lackey of a grand conspiracy to line the pockets of a few at the expense of the common man, and the political system that has sustained our nation for hundreds of years.”

“Such a grand speech. Have you any proof?”

“The money speaks for itself.”

“Please. Have you any idea who you’re talking to? I have far more money than I could possibly keep track of. That’s why I pay people to do that for me.”

“You’d boast of ignorance? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Still, I shouldn’t think you’d have that much difficulty keeping track of it all. Particularly as it’s rather less than you’d like people to believe.”

Grey’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, it all looks right on paper,” said Layton, “but paper is such a versatile medium, isn’t it? Dig a little deeper, and it covers walls that are crumbling. Your investments were poor. Your properties are falling apart. What funds you have are diverted purely to the frankly absurd cause of making your funds appear more substantial than they are. It’s a sham, a distraction, gilt over refuse.”

“And you have proof of this?” said Grey, voice dangerously soft.

“I’d be happy to bring out a dossier--”

“You have nothing.”

“I’m sure you’d like to believe that.” Though it was, depending on one’s interpretation of the facts, mostly true. He had to believe in himself regardless.

Grey stepped closer. “You don’t understand, Mr. Gentleman,” he said, as quiet as Layton had yet heard him, sneering the term as if it were an insult. “You don’t know what game you’re playing. You think you have power because you’ve been in a couple of newspaper articles? Crashed a couple of parties? Cowed a couple of fools? You simply hadn’t brought yourself to my attention. I can end your little campaign with a word. I can wreck your career. I can ruin you in more ways than you can even imagine.”

He stared into Layton’s eyes for a few moments, and then, with a grand sweep of his arms, turned away. “So run home, little man. Run while you still can.”

“...Do people actually find that intimidating?”

Grey stopped, and turned his head back Layton’s way. Layton looked back at him. His question was genuine. Such threats seemed ludicrously, childishly hollow to him. Perhaps he’d known more peril and sorrow than the average person-- but then, he doubted it. The world could be a wild and heartless place. Love was lost every day. It was unlikely that most people had faced Azran deathtraps, granted, but hospitals were busy places, and Layton fancied that even his one forced visit there alone would have granted him the perspective to see this for what this was.

“...You won’t give in, then?”

“To what?”

Grey let out an exasperated breath. “Then I suppose we’ll have to settle this like men.”

Layton tilted his head. “With reasoned debate?”

“I’m challenging you to a duel, you obtuse prat!”

Layton shrugged. His father had always told him to give people a chance to prove they were better than they appeared. “If you insist. Have you a time and place in mind?”

Grey stared at him a moment, then laughed. “You haven’t the guts.”

“Again, have you a time and place in mind?”

“Here,” said Grey. “Now.”

“I imagine the Winters will be dismayed at this affront to their hospitality--”

“Coward--”

“--but I am, in fact, prepared for this eventuality.” Layton raised his cane, and unsheathed the sword that lay hidden within it. “Are you, sir?”

Grey stared at him, just long enough for Layton to wonder if his bluster would fail him-- but then he strode to the host, exchanging a hurried word. A servant was back with a blade within moments; Grey drew it, and brandished it in a fencer’s stance. “Come, then,” said Grey, “if you dare.”

Layton saw no need to make the first move. He kept a wary eye on Grey, raising his sword into a defensive position. It was only a few seconds before Grey barked out a laugh and lunged for him. He’d suspected the man would have no patience. He was the sort who would take silence and decorum as a sign of weakness.

Layton began by playing defensive, getting an impression of the man’s style. He dodged one swipe, parried an overhead swing, ducked away from an irritated lunge. 

“Oh, for god’s sake, fight me like a man, will you?” Grey stepped back for a moment, exasperated. “Do you even have the slightest idea what you’ve got yourself into?”

He did, and a better idea by the second. Grey liked posturing; he liked showy gestures that made the blade flash and twirl; he was inordinately fond of lunges, beyond all sensibility. The man’s actual understanding of the art of fencing, he concluded, was, like the rest of him, lamentably shallow. “Sir,” he said, “do you?”

Grey scoffed and swung again. Layton met his blade, diverting it away from his face. He parried the next blow, and followed up with a sweeping strike of his own, though he didn’t drive the man back. Grey smirked and attacked all the more fiercely.

Still, the man was easy to read. He wondered how the man had won such duels in the past; he telegraphed those absurd lunges awfully. Any teacher-- but Layton shook his head; he would contemplate that later. As his own teachers had taught him, he focused wholly on Grey, meeting him now blow for blow. The man’s confidence didn’t seem to falter; even when Layton deliberately pulled a disarming blow to the man’s wrist, he hardly even seemed to notice. 

It was time that he began to attack in earnest. Their blades clashed, but the man didn’t seem to take that as any threat; from the lunges, perhaps he viewed the only true danger as ceding ground. How absurd. He pressed forward anyway, and yes, Grey’s eyes widened in alarm, before he launched into a counterattack. He’d left his left side completely open, but for the moment, he was successfully forcing Layton to the right.

But the crowd was too close-- some foolish young man was leaning forward with a camera. Ducking away to avoid the man, Layton stumbled, and was forced to one knee by the next blow. He recovered quickly, rolling away toward the safety of the table, but Grey hung back, laughing.

“Having second thoughts, are we?” Grey twirled his sword.

Layton opened his mouth, then shut it, thinking better of what he might say-- then, upon further deliberation, opened it again. _Goad him_, Paul had said. (Layton had protested that he didn’t know how. Paul had stared at him in silence for a full fifteen seconds before launching into a counterprotest that _yes he bloody well did, now stop playing stupid_.) “I was actually recalling, sir, an unfortunate incident wherein I was accosted by an elderly man who was under the influence of hallucinogens.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was, to be perfectly honest, more of a challenge.”

Grey gaped at him. “How _dare_ you!”

“Well, to be fair, he was certainly quite skilled at--” Layton broke off his explanation as Grey lunged again. He skipped backward, keeping a hold of his hat, and darted to the left, keeping an eye on the man’s defenses. His blows were growing sloppier, but there was significant power behind them.

“I’m sure he could have bested many men--” And he was called upon to dodge again. “There’s hardly any shame in--” This sweep he ducked under. “It’s no reflection on your skills, sir--”

“Will you _stop that_!” Grey rushed at him, and Layton saw his opening. He stepped aside, bringing his sword against Grey’s half-forgotten blade in a clash that sent it clattering to the ground. Grey stumbled backward, collapsing onto his knees, and Layton's sword settled in front of his throat.

"Are you quite finished with this madness?" he asked.

Grey’s arms slipped down, in surrender-- but no, to his pockets, because quick as a flash he had drawn something out of one and whipped it out high-- a gun, pointed at his forehead-- a mad triumph in Grey’s eyes as he pulled the trigger--

\--And Layton realised that he ought to be dead. That everything, all of it, could end right now, right here. All of it, left unfinished; the world left to carry on without him. And it would. It always did. Even when you couldn’t imagine how it could survive the loss.

But not today, because there was a reason this had all had a chance to occur to him. Not today, because the gun hadn't fired, and he certainly wasn't going to give it a second chance. He knocked the gun from Grey's hand; it clattered toward the onlookers, who were starting to murmur again in shock. Perhaps he'd heard a shriek. He'd been focused elsewhere at the time. 

He glared downward at Grey, sword back at his throat. "I don't know why on earth I should be surprised," he said. “Is there no depth you’ve failed to sink to, given the chance?”

But that was the sound of police approaching; the man's reputation should be thoroughly demolished by now, and if it wasn’t, he had no time for further efforts at the moment. Layton threw a flask of smoke and went for the window. Paul was settling his copter around back, as promised; he could hear its blades chopping the air. He met no resistance along the way, and threw himself quickly through the open cockpit door. Paul took off as he was fumbling to draw it closed.

"So how'd it go?" said Paul.

Layton was breathing heavily. He wondered if it was going to hit him, now that he was safe. These things could, in that fashion; regrettably, he knew from experience. It could have been over, should have been over, just like that, if only that gun hadn't…

Layton did not believe in miracles. Coincidence he could credit, but there were often other explanations. He looked up into Paul’s rearview mirror; the man’s eyes were narrowing, as they flicked an assessing look down Layton’s face.

"Oh, god damn it all, he _did_ do something stupid, didn't he?" said Paul.

Layton took a deep breath, though he feared he might be at risk of hyperventilation. Even now, he was a master of solving puzzles. "I didn't know you had a talent for pickpocketing," he said.

"I dabble," said Paul. Layton’s breath hitched faintly at the confirmation of it. No miracle indeed, nor even coincidence. Paul had seen considerably further ahead than he, and if he hadn’t-- "When'd he draw it? I hope he didn't aim it at himself."

"I-- _Paul_," he said, as the implications of that last bit sunk in, though without as much disapproval as would be proper.

"He's a bastard and I haven't found any evidence that the world wouldn't be better off without him," said Paul. "But I don't suppose we convinced him of that."

Layton shut his eyes, focusing on his breathing for a few moments, trying to let it all sink in. It pooled on the surface of his mind instead, but it would find cracks to sink into eventually. It had come so close, so close, and the only thing that had saved him... 

"I suppose I'll have to keep a count," said Layton, "of the times you've saved my life."

"We could put it on the chalkboard," said Paul. "Keep a running tally. Have grand arguments over what exactly counts." He laughed, a bit ruefully. "What were the papers saying about that last incident-- you know, the one when you actually practised archaeology instead of the art of driving me mad? The Azran, wasn’t it? You'll probably get to count that bloody nonsense once or twice, won’t you?"

Layton folded his arms in a reflexive rejection of the notion. "That would hardly be fair."

"Oh, what pathetic defense are you going to put up for that?"

“It’s quite different. Saving the world is one thing.”

“As I’m living in said world, it amounts to the same thing to me.”

“As someone else living in said world,” Layton countered, “there’s also an element of self-interest.”

“No grand moments of self-sacrifice for the greater good, eh?” Paul raised a sardonic eyebrow, as if he knew he had Layton pinned.

Regrettably, of course, the man was right. “Well, one or two,” said Layton, “but nonetheless--”

“Oh my God, of course there were. How stupid was it? Did you cast yourself on some ancient altar? Did you make a poignant speech before you went?”

Layton shook his head; he wasn’t going to rise to that obvious bait. “Why on earth are you arguing this point? Shouldn’t you enjoy having this over me in your ledgers?”

“I… force of habit,” said Paul.

Layton could hardly credit that. Paul hardly seemed to himself. Why on earth would Paul not simply bask in the glory, lord it over him, or at least accept the credit smugly and move on? Certainly Layton would demur from such praise himself, but that hardly seemed in line with Paul’s personality. And yet… “You’re trying to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

Paul blinked, as if disturbed by the notion. “Of course not. Why the hell would I do that?”

“An excellent question,” said Layton. “Why would you?”

“I’m not!”

Layton considered protesting, but could come up with few retorts other than ‘you are so’, which was far too childish. He just tilted his head, watching Paul, waiting.

“At any rate, I wouldn’t want this to get stupid,” said Paul. “No debts of honour or medieval frippery. I don’t know what idiocy a gentleman is supposed to commit over this kind of thing.”

“Quite,” Layton said, raising a hand to his lips in thought.

“Do you have any idea how incredibly inconvenient it would be if you died right now? Of course I’m going to prevent it. It’s as simple as that.”

“Of course it is.”

“Stop saying you agree with me when you obviously don’t at all!”

“What? Should I not agree with you?”

“Agh!” Paul leaned over the steering wheel, cursing to himself. Layton had to admit he’d expected such a reaction. It wasn’t wise to tease the man, but sometimes he left one with few acceptable alternatives.

The evidence suggested he had some talent at goading after all. Strange that he’d been unaware. What else was he missing? How much was he missing?

He glanced at Paul, who was still muttering, but at least had his eyes firmly fixed on the route ahead. He’d taken the mystery of Paul and his motivations as solved after… his confession in underground London. His love of Claire, his hatred of Layton’s cowardice-- what could possibly be more understandable?

But perhaps it had been something he could understand a little too readily. Perhaps it had been a tale told to match Layton’s biases-- or a tale he’d projected his own biases upon, all unwitting.

Either way, Paul was an enigma that was nowhere near as solved as he had naively assumed. And it was very possible he should address that forthwith. Had everything ended… well, he had no regrets about his actions. But there was more to be discovered, more to learn, more to do.

He was not willing to give up the fight.

\--


End file.
